22"92

In the year of 1992, Serena Benson hires Elliot Stabler, an architect, to redesign the sunroom of the house that she and her daughter, Olivia Benson, have just moved into. Olivia and Elliot meet and embark on a whirlwind romance. When an alleged tragedy strikes, Olivia has no other choice but to pick up the pieces and carry on with her life. 29 years later, she learns she's been living with a lie. What happens when the ghost from her past reappears?

Inspired by the movie "Love Letters From Your Last Lover"

Chapter 1: '22/'92

Chapter Text

A rainbow light casts upon the wall of Olivia's bedroom as the sun creeps up past the window sill. It's quiet, so that means Noah must still be asleep. Usually, she would use this time to get out of bed and make a fresh pot of coffee. Sit alone for a bit. Think, before getting Noah and herself ready for school and work. But she's tired this morning, because she was up late last night going through her closet. There's still things scattered about her bedroom. Old shoes she hasn't worn in years. A box of costume jewelry that she literally hasn't worn since the 90's. Folders filled with various different things. The death certificate of her mother, and the paperwork of some blood she had drawn to try and pinpoint her biological father, which had ultimately turned up unsuccessful.

There are other things. Boxes she hasn't looked inside of for years. One that she had deliberately skipped, and probably will stuff away into the closet tonight after work, when she decides she's had enough of playing Marie Kondo. What resides in one untouched box, is a time capsule. Something she can hold in her hand and look down at; Feel him in the grains of. So because of that, she chooses to ignore its presence. Treat it like its bangles and earrings that were never really her style even back then.

Olivia lies there, brown eyes fixated on the rainbow flare against the wall. A deep breath leaves her, hitting against the palm of her hand that rests by her mouth. A bird flies by at that very moment, and clouds the pattern on the wall. It reminds her, in that instant, of a particular windchime, and the way its mirrors used to dance and cast light of all colors across surfaces. Across his face and them, entangled in one another, years ago, in what seems like another life.

"Mom, are you awake?" Noah's voice is low – whispery as he peeks his curly head through the crack of Olivia's bedroom door.

Olivia turns over to face the door and smiles. "I am. Are you dressed already?" She asks, noticing he has his Nintendo Switch in his hand. It's playing some kind of arcade music.

"Can we get breakfast?" Noah asks.

"Not a cereal kind of morning, huh?" Olivia chuckles, throwing the covers off her. Her legs swing over the side of the bed and in one motion, it seems, she slides her feet into her house slippers. Beige ones with fuzzy strips across the top.

Noah leans against the door frame, pushing the door itself open a little more. She takes notice of the fact that he is already dressed for the day. "I want the sausage biscuit with the hash brown on it. Like the one we had last weekend." Noah smirks. "And … I'd like a —"

"Your breakfast orders are getting pretty ambitious, don't you think?" Olivia teases, standing to her feet and making her way over to her son. She reaches out and runs her fingers through the curly honey locks that sit on top of Noah's head. He grins up at her and shrugs. "I like hash browns." He replies nonchalantly.

"We can get breakfast." Olivia agrees, and walks past him and into the hallway.

Mornings move relatively quickly for Olivia. Once Noah is fed and off to school, she arrives at the social work agency where she works. She makes her way into the office with two coffees in hand. One for her, and one for Amanda, who's cubicle sits next to hers.

Amanda pops up over the half-wall of the cubicle once she realizes Olivia is near. "For me?" She grins, with a funny tone.

"For you." Olivia hands the drink over the wall to Amanda.

'Why thank ya." Amanda takes the drink from a smiley Olivia. She usually brings coffees for them both, or it'll be the other way around where Amanda brings some kind of pastry or whatever in with her.

"How's Jessie's cold?" Olivia asks.

"Doing better. My mother was on the phone with me until two in the damned morning trying to tell me how to, I don't know, put onions on her chest to break up her cough? I –" Amanda rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She brings her coffee to her lips and takes a sip. "Mmm. I needed this."

"Tell me about it." Olivia takes a drink of her own coffee, and sits down – only to glide in her chair out of her cubicle to the open end so she can see Amanda, who sits in her own chair. "Did you do it?" Olivia asks Amanda.

"Did I do what? The onions?" Amanda asks.

"Yeah." Olivia giggles.

"No, I wasn't gonna put onions on my baby." Amanda scoffs. "She did it to me when I was little and I smelled like I'd been sautéed for days." The blonde grins.

"Fair enough. When Noah was a baby, I was so scared to put anything on him that would break his skin out. But I'm telling you, steam is the way to go. Take her into the bathroom, shut the door, turn the hot shower on and just sit there with her on your lap. The steam will break all of that up." Olivia suggests, reclining back in her desk chair and crossing one leg over the other.

"I'll try that tonight." Amanda replies. "So, did you think about what I said?"

"Mm … you say a lot of things." Olivia's voice is muffled by the mouthpiece of her coffee lid.

" Ha-ha. The date. The guy. You know? The one you said you would think about going out with yesterday … and the day before that … and so on and so forth?" Amanda asks.

"I …." Olivia pauses. "I just don't think now is a good time."

"It's never a good time. You need to get out there and meet somebody." Amanda states.

"I will, when the time is right." Olivia says.

"Yeah, yeah. So I should tell him you're not interested then?" Amanda tilts her head.

" Yup." Olivia responds nearly straight away.

"You're impossible, Olivia Benson." Amanda sighs, spinning around towards her computer in an exaggerated move.

"I know, I know." Olivia smirks, rolling herself back into her cubicle.

They've worked together for years and this isn't the first time Amanda has tried to set her up on a date. In fact, there's been a few guys that Amanda has deemed "perfect" for Olivia. And Olivia has even gone out with a few of those guys. But they're never what she's looking for, because the fact of the matter is she isn't looking. She's convinced herself she doesn't desire that kind of relationship. That her and her son are happy by themselves and adding another person into the mix would be complicated to say the least.

"How's Sonny?" Olivia asks, still talking to her through the wall that separates them. It's kind of their thing. As she waits for an answer, she begins digging through the small file cabinet that sits to her left, where she brings out the case files she'll be working on for the day.

"Good. He wants to have dinner at his mother's house next weekend. For Mother's Day." Amanda says, and Olivia hears what sounds like a stapler being punched by Amanda's palm.

"How do you feel about that?" Olivia asks. She knows Amanda is standoffish about meeting new people at times. Especially if the family is her boyfriend's. But, her and Sonny seem to be on a pretty steady trajectory.

"Mm, his mom seems nice enough I guess. I'm a little nervous though." Amanda states.

"You'll get through it. Just tell her everything she makes is amazing, even if it isn't." Olivia teases, opening her laptop and sliding her glasses onto her face.

"She's Italian, it's going to be amazing." Amanda laughs. Another staple punch.

" Right attitude ." Olivia lets out a soft chuckle. "Activate that Georgia peach personality and you'll be just fine."

"I'm naturally peachy. I don't have to activate anything." Amanda jokes, inciting a boisterous laugh from Olivia.

" Goodnight." Olivia stares into a nearly dark room, except for the moon shaped night light that's plugged into the wall and illuminates the side of Noah's face. He's smiling and warm from just being tucked in.

"Night, Mom." He says, nuzzling further down underneath the blankets. "Love you." He adds, fingers perched on the edges of his race flag comforter.

"I love you." Olivia replies, and blows him a kiss. He doesn't return the gesture at first, and pauses to give it good thought before blowing Olivia a kiss back. He's getting older now, and she's noticed that he's pulling away, like kids do when they begin to grow up. She's preparing herself for it. For the moment when kissing him on his cheek before he goes into school every morning is too embarrassing. She's glad, in some ways, that's all her son has to be embarrassed of when it comes to his mother. She doesn't like to think about things she was embarrassed about at his age. It's something that resides heavily in the back of her mind and occasionally will come on days when something reminds her of it.

Olivia cracks Noah's bedroom door shut and releases a soft sigh. She brings her hand to the back of her head and tousles her honey toned hair a bit, before making her way into the living room. It's quiet in her apartment now. No arcade music from video games, or chattiness from her son about his day. The television is on mute, and briefly, as she makes her way over to the remote to turn it off, she notices that some business commercial is on. What catches her attention is the fact that it's an architecture commercial. No words on the screen, or people for that matter. But just slow pans through houses. Gazebos. Things like that. Beautiful structures. There must be a voice, though she doesn't think of it, that is boasting about their company's work. If she were to unmute it, she would hear .

Olivia finds herself standing there staring at the television, and only breaks her trance when she hears the dryer kick off from the tiny unit room in the hallway. She shakes her and turns the television off.

As the night goes on, she finishes up her and Noah's laundry – purposefully avoiding her room and the mess she made the night before. The scattered boxes and things that are all over the place, that she was just too tired to try and put away the night before. Things she told herself she could get rid of but couldn't. Bangles and earrings that she wore only a couple of times. That he had touched. That he had moved his fingertip against. The flick of her earrings, with his thumb under the bead, is still a familiar feeling for her. How the small round bulb would tickle her neck when he would play with it.

Olivia makes her way into the bedroom with her white plastic laundry basket underneath her arm. She's in her pajamas already. Ones that belonged to an old boyfriend long before Noah came along. She'd thrown out belongings of his that he never came to get, but kept the pajamas just because they were comfortable. She washed them immediately, not caring if they kept any specific smell of the man or harbored any emotional attachment. Those things didn't matter to her.

But what she would give to smell him one more time. The way he smelled when he would be out in the sunroom all day in the heat, bossing his friend around. Telling him how the wood he was using was all wrong and how it wouldn't take to the paint as well as another type of wood would. How he smelled after they made love, when there was no cologne left because it had been sweated off and was just him. And her. The time when he stood out in the center of a property that didn't belong to him, and waited for her to come and kiss him. He smelled like rain that was yet to come; Teasing the thunder that rolled in the distance that night as party lights caught his features even from what seemed like miles away. With blue eyes resembling the sky above, and those party lights twinkling in them as if the stars were directed at her.

She can either put it away now, or wait until morning. Like she did last night, which served to do nothing but remind her of things she's successfully been able to put out of her mind until last night; Until she decided she was going to clear out some things in what she refers to her closet as the pit. Olivia's a pretty tidy person, but things that she doesn't know what to do with, usually end up in the pit. She should've left it alone, she realizes. Waited maybe until she was too old and senile to recount most of it.

But Olivia Benson is fifty-four now, and she may never forget him. She thinks it must be the most beautifully tragic thing in the world. Second to that, after all these years, she cannot look into a particular box lying on the floor. A shallow beige one, which if she remembers correctly once held one of those electronic picture frame displays. That device has been long gone, but the box stayed behind, keeping something locked inside from another life. A time that she hasn't looked back on in all of its capacity in years. Motherhood has drowned the need to do so. Her work, and even her own hesitancy to remember what she had, before she inevitably lost it.

A sigh leaves her, a manifestation of her thoughts to finish what she started. Even if finishing what she started means locking things away yet again in a closet, not to be seen again for years. Olivia sits the laundry basket down at the foot of the bed and gives it a slight kick with her foot so that it's out of her way. She begins picking up random shoeboxes. Folders full of things like her and Noah's passports. Shoes. An old tote with winter clothes in it that she put away three years ago and never brought out again. She avoids the two boxes stacked on top of one another. A little red one, which holds old jewelry. The beige one, which sits underneath it.

But like with many other phenomenon, you can only avoid something for so long before that's all that is left. Until the avoidable is unavoidable, simply because it's there in all of the emptiness around it, staring at you and waiting for you to acknowledge its presence.

Olivia stands there, looking around to see if there's anything else to put away. There's not. Just so those two boxes. She saunters over to the boxes that sit on the floor, just below the window, and she picks them up. She could put them away. Not have to look at them, or even imagine what she'd feel if she were to open the beige box. But the moment she picks them up, she stares down at them without any further movement. Her mind begins to race. Maybe she should have a look. She hasn't seen the contents of the beige box in years. Years. Fifteen, if she had to guess? It's been a while. But she does remember the last time she held the things inside in her hands. The tears that had streamed down her face. The way she had cried herself to sleep that night, clutching at one of the objects.

She presses her lips together. There's a part of her that knows this isn't a good idea. A huge part, actually. So why is she even contemplating it?

" Mmm–mm." Olivia shakes her head to herself. No. Nope. She's not going there. She's made too much progress to spiral again. So, she heads over to the closet and practically throws the boxes on top of the tote filled with winter clothes, and shuts the closet door. More like slams it. She has a bad habit of slamming doors.

She reaches up to remove the two strips of hair that have fallen into her face, and tucks them behind her ears. With another shake of her head, she makes her way over to the laundry basket and picks it up only to sit it down on the foot of the bed. She begins to fold clothes. The box?

Out of sight. Out of mind. Or not.

" Fuck." Olivia whispers under her breath, tossing down one of her white t-shirts straight back into the laundry basket. She turns around and goes back over to the closet, where she swings the door open and bypasses the red box of jewelry all together, going straight for the beige box. She carries it over to the bed, leaving the closet door wide open, and pops the lid off the box in what seems like one motion.

Brown eyes fixate on the first thing lying on top of the box, which is a note, folded and resting where she laid it last. The paper is old enough so that it's discolored to an off white. She reaches in for that first, ignoring what lies underneath the note. She uses her thumb to open up the note, and in cursive, it reads …

Central park? Around 11 tonight. Be there? Or don't. Up to you. I might cry like a little boy if you don't show up though, just saying.

No, like really cry.

Love, El.

Olivia, still remembering there's more to the note, flips it over. She can tell he wrote the note on a blueprint just from the fact that there's a ceiling light symbol on the corner of the paper. A circle, with a cross in the middle.

You don't want to imagine me huddled on the floor weeping, do you? And then out from it, a random ¤ from his blueprint. That man could never grab a blank piece of paper to jot something down on to save his life.

Olivia laughs. It's low, but she grabs at her chest the instant it leaves her. She slowly places the note down onto the white linen of her bed, and that's when her focus drifts back to what's inside the box.

The only thing that's left. She never had the heart to crowd anything else into the box but the two things he'd given her. Olivia's eyes are stinging before she even reaches to pick the drawing up. She lifts it up, watching as the yellow light of her ceiling fan glares down on it, catching at the graphite.

"Hmm." Olivia squints her eyes at it. Her free hand still rests over her chest, where she draws slow circles in the center. A calming gesture she's developed over the years. A way to ground herself. She begins taking in everything about what's in front of her, on discolored paper.

The graphite ingrained on textured paper. The straight lines, connecting to one another, that all form a two story house. There's no color to it. But she knows what color it is. It's yellow. White shutters. There's a sunroom behind it, though she can't see that on the paper. He told her they'd have their own sunroom someday, because he knew that was her favorite spot. The sketch is simple. One of the first he had ever drawn for her. But Olivia's eyes flicker up to the center of the drawing, where she takes notice of a very particular window that rests in what would be the attic of the home. Diamond shaped. She'd asked for that.

You can have anything you want. He told her.

Olivia begins drifting off.

Anything? Olivia asked.

I'll build you seven houses if that's what you want. One for every day of the week. He replied.

One will do, so long as you're in it. She said.

Olivia finds herself sitting on the edge of her bed, tracing the lines of the sketch, careful not to smudge it. And just like she knew would happen, she begins to fade off into that place. Twenty-nine years ago, when she still had him.

1992 .

Elliot Stabler stands in front of the old Victorian home, taking in everything about it. His eyes are squinted from the sun, but instead of moving forward, he studies the residence. It's a large house. The SOLD sign still resides in the front yard. The house itself, made up of red brick and green trim, sits on a neatly mowed lawn. There's a tree in the front yard, monstrous and, if he had to guess, probably as old as the house itself, if not older. It hovers above the roof, almost eerily watchful. Leaves extend out and brush against the turret from a branch that droops lower than the others.

He knows what he's doing here. But also, at the same time, wonders why not leave it alone? Elliot hates when people want to rip apart old houses in one way or another.

He flings his suit jacket over his shoulder, letting it dangle from his two fingers, and makes his way up the inclined concrete steps that lead up to the front porch of the home. He steps onto it, looking around curiously. It's a nice place, that much he's gathered. He reaches out and presses his free finger to the doorbell, and waits.

Nothing.

Elliot rings the doorbell again.

Again, nothing.

He clears his throat, and decides he'll just knock on one of the two doors. Hard. So, he draws his fist and pounds on the mahogany wood, bypassing the stain glass. He notices the pattern on the glass strips that sit in the center of each respected door. It's an elaborate design. Small squares, multi-colored. There's a star-like design in each pane. Before he can study anything further about it, both doors swing open.

An older woman stands in the center, with both hands still holding onto the doors. Her aged blonde hair is slicked back into a low bun. She wears round, sophisticated earrings. Her outfit is a baby pink blazer and skirt. A scarf around her neck. From what she told him on the phone, she's a professor, so she must have just arrived home from a lecture or something of the sort.

"May I help you?" She asks.

"Are you Serena Benson?" Elliot asks, tilting his head.

"I am." Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "You are?"

"I'm Elliot Stabler. From Stable Designs. We spoke on the phone–" Elliot begins.

"Oh! Of course. Yes, yes. Come in." Serena waves him in, stepping away from the door. "I forgot all about our appointment. For some reason I thought today was Wednesday, not Thursday." She rolls her eyes around and just as Elliot sticks out his hand to formally become acquainted, she's turned and moving away from him – waving him into the direction she's going. His eyes, blue and icy, begin to look around. There's mahogany wood everywhere. Windows that cast a glowy light in, that reflects off the slightly lighter toned wood of the old floors. Specks of dust fly about, and he knows she must have not had time to clean before this. There's still boxes sitting off in the corner, stacked on top of one another.

There's a staircase further out, which takes up a majority of the foyer. Old red carpet that honestly needs to be pulled up, trails in curves up the steps.

Serena comes back into the foyer, and it's obvious she thought he had followed her into the kitchen. "It's old but we're working on it. Lots to do. Starting with your job Mr. Stabler. If you'll follow me." She states, pointing in the direction that she came back to him from.

"Of course. Sorry." Elliot nods, and turns to follow her.

Just as he begins to follow her, from his peripheral vision, he catches someone coming down the stairs in a hurry. Stomp, stomp, stomp makes him turn his head in the direction completely, and that's when he sees her. He slows down just as he cuts around the corner of the hallway, catching her profile as she rushes out the door. Long dark hair falls over her shoulders, and he can tell even in the briefness of their encounter (If you would call it that.) that she has bangs.

Only when she turns her attention towards him, does he see her face in full. Brown eyes. Thick, dark eyelashes. A face that truly looks like it was sculpted. Plump, pink lips. She's staring back at him, wide eyed.

And then she's gone. Out the door, slamming it from behind her.

"Olivia, don't slam the door!" Serena calls out. "She never listens to me." The blonde rolls her eyes, standing midway in the hall. "Are you coming, young man?" She arches a finely groomed brow at him.

"Yes. Of course." Elliot nods, bringing his jacket, which had somehow fallen to his side without recollection, back over his shoulder — dangling from two fingers. He realizes as he follows Serena down the hall, that in the few moments he had come across the young woman coming down the stairs, he had memorized her features perhaps quicker, and better than any detail of the house he was standing in.

"We're going to the sunroom, follow me." Serena points, and her heels begin clicking in an echoed rhythm as she makes her way further down the hall and turns to go into the kitchen. Another stained glass window rests between the hallway wall, and the entryway of the kitchen.

Elliot follows her, regardless, though his mind is on one thing and one thing only.

Olivia.

Olivia.

Olivia.